Renegade (Ministry of Paranormal Research & Defence) (30 page)

He drew back his fist and punched downward, smashing through skin and bone, his gore-soaked hand sinking into Tunbridge's chest. He ripped the heart free and shoved it into the dead vampire's mouth.

He stood for a moment, admiring his handiwork, before leaving as silently as he had arrived.

When the household servants came to see if the Master needed anything, they found the corpse, the blood, the heart. And they found a message, scrawled in the vampire's blood, on the desk:

THE PAGAN IS MINE.

MORDER.

A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE

There is no Tennessee State Police Department. The enforcement of state laws in the state of Tennessee is handled by the Tennessee Highway Patrol and the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. I had no desire to paint either of these organizations as corrupt, hence the invention.

There is also no Prescott county in Tennessee and, therefore, no Prescott County Sheriff's Department.

A
BOUT
T
HE
A
UTHOR

Andrew Chapman is an English immigrant who lives in Kentucky with his wife and a startlingly insane cat.

Renegade
is his third novel, sequel to
Crusader
and
Pagan
. Since the publication of Crusader, Chapman has started driving a pick-up truck. This may be an attempt to fit in. He has yet to fit it with a gun rack.

twitter.com/AndyOnTheWold

facebook.com/chapman.andrew

imalegalalien.blogspot.com

cafepress.com/mprd

A
VAILABLE
N
OW:

Pagan

M
INISTRY
OF
P
ARANORMAL
R
ESEARCH
AND
D
EFENCE

B
OOK
1

They stand between us and the darkness.

They patrol the streets of our cities every night.

They hold back the tide of hate and violence

that threatens to engulf us.

They fight and bleed and die to protect us.

We pour scorn on their efforts.

We mock their sacrifices.

We seek to sap their strength.

We make pacts with the enemy.

They are the vampire hunters.

And they are our only hope.

They will save us.

Whether we deserve it or not.

Introducing Jack Henderson, England's top vampire hunter. He and his fellow hunters are fighting a war against an ancient and implacable foe and a population increasingly unwilling to support their efforts. He's tired, jaded and disheartened, but now he has a chance to take the fight to the vampires and challenge them in the very seat of their power.

A
VAILABLE
N
OW:

Crusader

M
INISTRY
OF
P
ARANORMAL
R
ESEARCH
AND
D
EFENCE

B
OOK
2

H
OW DOES AN ATHEIST MAKE A LEAP OF FAITH?

When a series of vampire attacks target the very center of the Catholic faith, the Vatican contacts the British Government. Their request: the best vampire hunter in the country.

Unfortunately he’s an Atheist.

Jack Henderson returns as Pagan, the Ministry’s top hunter He’s on a mission he’s not sure about. He’s in a country he doesn’t know. He’s working for a government he doesn’t trust. And he’s looking for an artifact he doesn’t believe exists.

Should be a piece of cake.

C
OMING
S
OON:

Scrapper

M
INISTRY
OF
P
ARANORMAL
R
ESEARCH
AND
D
EFENCE

B
OOK
4

With Jack suspended from duty and the rest of the team reassigned, Marie Hennessy finds herself transferred to another Hunter's team. Trying to adjust to the Hunter's style is difficult enough, but when an old friend arrives bearing news, things go from bad to worse.

Someone in the Ministry is passing information to the vampires, and all of the evidence seems to point to John and Anna.

Read on for a sneak preview of

Scrapper

The next Ministry of Paranormal Research & Defence novel.

C
HAPTER

1

If there is a god of vampire hunters then he—or she—has a very crappy sense of humour. Here I am, stuck in a muddy field, gun in hand, waiting for the order to attack a former RAF base, now under the control of the vampires. It's raining. I'm cold and wet and miserable. If you think wet fur smells bad, try wearing it. Jack, meanwhile, is back home, warm and safe and dry. But for tuppence he'd swap places with me. And he'd probably have fun being here.

He even would have enjoyed the Royal Navy ship that bought us here, and the little inflatable boats that dumped us on the shoreline. If the amount of people who asked after him is any indication, he probably has friends aboard.

But someone decreed that he should be home and I should be here. Like I said, crappy sense of humour.

With me were a mixture of Hunters and Royal Marines. We'd been training the Marines in preparation for this attack for months. Now were were the advance force for a massive, coordinated offensive. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Our small force was going to attack a vampire military stronghold and hope to hold it long enough for the second wave to arrive.

And did I mention the rain was running down my muzzle and soaking my fur? I was constantly fighting the urge to shake the water off of my coat. Worse, the damp atmosphere was killing my ability to scent.

Yeah, definitely not the place I would've chosen to be.

There was a subtle stir of movement as squad leaders up and down the line gave the hand signal to move out. The vampire hunters rose and began creeping forward, taking point. We topped a slight rise and moved silently through the trees towards the base's chain-link perimeter fence. We kept watch while a small group made short work of the fence with bolt croppers and then we were through into the base. We hit the deck, belly-crawled up another slight rise, and our target came into view.

On a lit section of runway sat some brand new attack helicopters. Various figures were working on and around them and, as we watched, another flew in and landed. Intelligence reports had claimed the vampires were taking delivery of some Eurocopters. They were being flown in across the North Sea, literally under the radar. On the ships which had bought us here there'd been a lot of speculation about why the choppers weren't just shot down as they approached the coast. If anyone knew for sure, nobody was saying. Somebody had decided it was a good idea to catch the choppers on the ground, so here we were.

Like everyone else around me, I quickly counted the helicopters. There was eleven on the ground so far. We were waiting for one more.

I took a look through the sights of my rifle and figured out some firing lines. The first targets were the four off to the left. They were fully armed and fueled. We had to get those before they could take off. During the briefing, these were called Red targets, from right to left I mentally named them Red 1 to Red 4, knowing everyone else would be doing the same. Five were in the process of being prepped. Orange 1 to Orange 5. They would be the next target, then the two that had just landed and the one which was now coming into sight. Green 1 and Green 2, with Green 3 being the one coming in.

Green 3 circled the airfield and began descending. I glanced around, got some nods and a couple of thumbs ups. Each of us picked our targets. Those with shoulder-launched anti-tank missiles would hit the primary targets, the rest would lay down suppressive fire to keep the crew from mounting up and taking off in the rest of the helicopters.

I tracked Green 3 down and, as it turned, I caught a glimpse of the pilot, sitting in the front seat. The back seat was empty. The wheels touched down and helicopter settled onto its suspension. The pilot cut the engine and the rotor blades wound down. I put my sights on one of the crew members working around Orange 2—we'd gone through an unbelievably large number of potential scenarios during our briefing and each hunter had been assigned a helicopter depending on the state of the group—and fought to control my breathing. I wouldn't open fire until the hunters with the missile launchers did. Then all hell would break loose.

Green 3's pilot climbed out and began chatting to one of the ground crew. As he turned to point up at the rotor blades, missiles were launched from our lines. Red 1, 3 and 4 were reduced to burning wrecks. Red 2 was flipped onto its side, the rotor blades twisted. While the hunters hurried to reload their launchers the rest of us opened fire on the crew as they scurried for cover. I fought to control my excitement, trying for short, controlled bursts rather than emptying my magazine in one go. The whole scene was a chaotic massacre. Most of the ground crew were unarmed and didn't stand a chance. The pilots were the same but, even so, a few of them had made it to the cockpits and the sound of engines rose.

More missiles were launched and more helicopters exploded, but two made it into the air. One was partially armed, Orange 1, the other was the last arrival, Green 3. Both helicopters moved off into the night.

Alarms were going off in the base and headlights were streaming towards us. We scrambled for defensive positions.

“Armour incoming!” yelled a Marine who appeared next to me. “Get the bangers set up!”

The main bulk of our force had arrived. Now we just had to hold for the Army to get here.

Off to my left a pair of Marines were setting up an anti-tank missile launcher. Another pair worked to their left, and three more groups were setting up to my right. Coming towards us was a pair of armored troop carriers. Behind them, what looked like a couple of light tanks and three American Humvees.

The second group to my left were ready first and a missile sped towards the first APC. There was a brief, bright flash and the vehicle spun sideways, smoke pouring from a huge rent in the side. Another missile from my right hit the closest of the tanks, flipping it on its side. Then the ground around the first team erupted in a cloud of mud and grass. A horrific noise, like someone tearing a gigantic piece of cloth came from above. One of the helicopters—Green 3 by the empty racks under the wings—had circled around and was spraying the marines from the gun mounted under the cockpit. In this, it seemed, the intelligence had been wrong. The choppers weren't coming in totally unarmed.

“Scrapper!” came a voice from behind me. “Cover your ears and stay still!”

It was Callie. She rested her sniper rifle on my shoulder. I hurried to duck my head and clap my paws over my ears. Even so, the bang of her rifle was painfully loud and left my ears ringing. I saw a crazed circle appear in the cockpit glass by the pilot's head. The chopper spun out of control and crashed into the runway. One of the incoming Humvees swerved to avoid the wreckage and plowed into another, sending both skidding across the tarmac.

Orange 1 was still out there somewhere, and it was carrying a lot more than just a gun.

The Marines took out the second APC and another tank before a series of explosions came out of nowhere and chewed the edge of the runway—and two Marine missile teams—to pieces.

“Fuck! Where is he?” yelled Callie.

Orange 1 was standing off and firing at us from a distance. Bad news.

We were all scrambling for whatever cover we could find when a new noise started. It was low to begin with, quickly rising in volume to the point where it drowned out the sounds of battle, a noise like an angel of vengeance screaming in rage. A shape flashed overhead, followed by another. They were Harriers, flying low enough that they were visible in the lights from the airfield. The first of our reinforcements. The lead Harrier launched a missile from under one wing and, in the distance, an explosion lit the night sky.